So last night, even though I don’t believe in it, I indulged the children with a little trick-or-treating. I realised last year that we live in “Trick-or-Treat Central” – people actually appear to be brought in by bus to plunder the candy supplies of my street. So how could I say no when it’s such a big thing? Furthermore, DD’s on school holidays, street crime is unheard of, and the weather’s ideal right now for wandering about dressed in low-grade polyester.
In fact, in terms of safety and climate, Arabian Ranches probably is the most perfect spot in the world for trick-or-treating.
So off I set at 6pm with my two little devils (no, really, they were in devil capes) on a route I estimated would take us about an hour to walk. But by the time we factored in all the stopping, all the “Happy Hallowe’en”-ing and all the meeting of our neighbours (not to mention our friends who’d come over from Jumeirah), it took way over an hour.
At 7.30pm, as we were dragging the overloaded pumpkins of cheap sweets back up the hill to our house, gangs of sugar-crazed teenagers were running wild, the sparkle had gone from DD’s stride and I was feeling I couldn’t walk another step (I was pushing DS in his trike), my phone rang.
“At least you’re doing it the traditional way,” sympathised my friend J, resting at home with a glass of wine and a platter of exotic cheese. “Not like those mums who drive around, pushing the kids out of the car to shout “trick or treat” before driving on to the next house.”
What a great idea, I thought through a haze of exhaustion. Drive-by trick-or-treating. I think it could catch on.